


Fly Away, Counting Days

by MistyDeath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coffee, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyDeath/pseuds/MistyDeath
Summary: “How the hell could I forget you…” he waves at the general disfunction of Draco’s living area, “you blonde ponce?”Draco chooses to stare at him rather than rip him a new one. He ignores the eleven-year-old inside him that is, somewhere, deep in the remains of his soul, happy. Therapy, he thought bitterly. Therapy. Something Potter clearly needed a lot of if this was how he was going about his relationships.Harry keeps leaving his things all over Draco’s house. Normally Draco would be okay with this, but it does get terribly depressing, cleaning up after someone you aren’t sure will come back.





	Fly Away, Counting Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All!  
> This is the first fic I've posted in a long time. The sole survivor among dozens of forgotten plots.  
> I first came up with this fic when I accidentally broke the circuit breaker in my house at 5 in the morning while making a cup of coffee and some toast at the same time. Spent the next four hours typing a majority of this fic out. I highly recommend it. The writing, that is. Not the kitchen appliance disaster.  
> I had such a fun time writing this! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> \- Misty Death / Slashfoxes

Draco’s staring at the cursed armoire he’d been tasked with fixing by his favorite client. He swears.

The first few times he’d taken a job, Draco had rushed almost obsessively. The only one to give him a shot, Borgeson had been pleased, and nearly amazed at the turnaround time. 

“So desperate to prove, my boy - don’t you dare worry about the timing for the next one, alright? This proves you to be just fabulous.”

Draco still only charged him half of what his current clients rates were. It was the only relaxed project he had, and naturally he’d left it for last. 

 

His hand was sore from flipping through page upon page of what must’ve been a dozen different guides to curse breaking. Draco would have to turn on the lights soon. The sun was setting, and the windows facing the front gardens were shining diamonds across the carpet. He had taken to working in the sitting area, feeling far too isolated from the world in his father’s old study, among other things he still did feel like acknowledging. 

In the lawn chair he’s got set up, it’s almost like he’s on holiday in this light.

 

He’s focused on a particular spot he needed to fix when Potter comes out of his Floo. Which, up until this moment, Draco did not know he had access to. The gleaming golden badge reminds him that Potter is an Auror. As does the acrid smell from the Floo, something he now only associates with Aurors. He scowls. 

It’d been so long since someone had dropped in, Draco had almost forgotten the shitty plastic furniture was there for a reason. Even if he’d grown to have affection for the neon green, most Aurors were still Pureblooded enough to question his sanity on the choice.

 

He has a million thoughts run through his head, and, before he can voice any of them, Potter throws a bag of coffee onto a table. 

It’s a crumpled paper bag, worn down and crinkled all over. Draco looks between the bag and Potter, expectant. Incredulous. “You’ve…I…what - brought me… _ coffee _ ?” 

 

“Well, I wanted a cup after today.” Draco is stunned back into silence. He wants to ask what that has to do with him. After assessing Potter quickly and not coming to a solution that gets him out of this situation faster, he decides to.

“It doesn’t, not really,” Potter says.

 

Silence stretches out between them. Draco’s wary, while Potter – well, Draco can’t tell what Potter is. He’s seen Potter vulnerable before, hell, he used to lock onto the man’s misery like it was a snitch. But he’s just standing there, leaking emotions that Draco isn’t sure he’s equipped to deal with. 

Draco’s mind is wandering towards the last time Potter was in this house when he speaks.

 

“D’you mind if I sit?” Now Draco is openly staring, and Potter stares back, face putting on a challenging front as if remembering where he is. Conceding, Draco waves at the plastic chair, all thoughts of the curse breaking gone. Draco even clears the table of his work. 

After Potter sits, he doesn’t do much else. Harry Potter is sitting on a plastic Muggle lawn chair in a house that belongs to a family of ex-Death Eaters. Wonders never cease. They both sit there, silencing eating Draco alive. 

 

He isn’t sure what to do in this situation. It could be the last time they were here together. It might be the memories of other Aurors making their way through his home, destroying it, that have set Draco on edge and made him antsy after the telltale smoky remains of what usually was an unannounced guest made itself known. It could just be Potter. They were never friends. They never have been. Potter rejected his hand, and Draco cemented the decision with every fibre of his being. So, what the flying hell is this man doing in his home?

 

“Potter, do you like pasta?” His guest blinks rapidly, head tilting as he looks at Draco. 

“Pasta?”

“Yes, pasta. Do you want to eat?” Potter stares some more, uncomprehending, and Draco wants to scream in frustration. “I’m not going to poison you – I’m asking if you want to eat. The elves, they can make, well, I’m sure they can do whatever – something?” Draco might be rambling a bit. It might not help the situation. Potter nods. He still seems unsure, but for now, Draco will call it a win. 

 

“Does anyone know you’re here?” He’ll never be able to say that without sounding like a ponce. 

Potter seems to agree that he does, and a grin spreads across his face. “No.”

The Auror department…Weasley…Granger…whoever else considered Potter to be important, they would be looking for him, surely. In fact, Draco was surprised they hadn’t followed the idiot through.

“Do…you want me to owl them?” Potter shakes his head. Further conversation is paused when Bethsda comes in, two plates neatly sliding themselves onto the table. Potter’s hand shoots out, grabbing the coffee and cradling it before placing it beside him. 

 

Draco shares a look with Bethsda. “Thank you, that’ll be all – unless Potter – do you want anything to drink?” He inclines his head, nodding at the coffee. Potter shakes his head again, so Bethsda makes her way back to her quarters.

He doesn’t trust Potter, so his own curiosity gets the better of him while they eat.

 

“So, what are you doing nowadays, Potter. Still racing after people no one else believes are evil?”

The fact that Potter chokes on a small bit of food when he asks makes Draco laugh. It’s like they’re back in third year. “Not really, -  _ guh – _ that kinda negates having me chase someone if there’s no evidence to it.”

Draco hums conspiratorially. 

“Not that it’s really any of your business, anyway. The whole point of me being able to be here whether you like it or not.”

 

There’s the stubbornness he’d hated his whole life. It was because he was also stubborn as hell. Draco moves to slice his food and manages to mangle his hand. “ _ Bloody fuck –  _ “he presses the cut to his mouth. 

Next thing he’s up and walking towards his wand on the counter before Potter can move. Turning around with his wand in his hand, he looks up to see Potter staring at him. “ _ What _ ,” he hisses.

 

Potter shrugs. “Just. Concerned?” Draco sneers at him before stitching the slice closed. At the table, he notes that Potter’s already siphoned the blood away, his cutlery and napkin spotless.

They spend the remainder of their meals eating in silence, Draco wincing every so often when the cold metal of the fork touches his hand. As tired and confused as Potter looks, he seems to be looking at him with pity in his eyes. Which he certainly never asked for. It’s unnerving.

 

After a few minutes of sporadic eye contact,  _ that Draco refuses to acknowledge _ , Potter decides to answer the question from earlier, despite it not being Draco’s business. He exhausts himself for the first few minutes of the conversation trying to figure out if this is a convoluted plot. He asked Potter something, and then he refused to answer, so that was all well,  _ but now he’s answering _ ? Clearly there’s nothing in his monologue to be gained if it’s given up so easily.

This isn’t where he thought he’d be tonight. The armoire should’ve been opened and sent back to the client by now. Potter’s not only invading his space, he’s costing Draco money. He’d never have guessed he’d be jealous of Weasley or Potter wealth wise. It didn’t matter how much money either had – Draco would always have more. No, it was the percentage earned, rather than inherited, that irked him. Not that anyone would ever hear of it. 

As far as Draco knows, he hasn’t done anything to warrant...well, a warrant for anything related to the Ministry. Painstakingly careful as he’s been, he’s still not able to ascertain more than a few clients, so whatever the Ministry can’t figure out they’ve sent him. Word of mouth has spread slowly, but surely enough to where he might actually have to worry about not meeting deadlines if this proves to be a nuisance. 

 

So, with nothing to be gained, and nothing array, in some aspects, he realizes this is his childhood dream come true. He’s being party to Potter’s social life. Which, as he’s watching Potter’s hand move back and forth while explaining –  _ trajectory missed, so the funny whatsit exploded, next thing you know, smoke’s flying everywhere –  _ something, Draco realizes  _ this _ might be the adventure. 

Chat up an ex-Death Eater. Enter their home without a care in the world. Throw coffee at them. Get them off their rhythm, ruin their evening and possibly their career.

 

“You’ve been working on Curse Breaking lately, right? I heard you did something Bill sent over some time ago...” Potter comments, not trailing off anywhere  _ nearly _ convincingly enough. He doesn’t care.

“Did I? That’s always nice to know,” Draco replies, “you  _ do _ know I can’t know the Ministry clients’ names for fear I might attack them as an ex-Death Eater, correct?” Potter shrugs. Draco slides down his chair a bit, back straining to find comfort as the rubber presses here and there. 

 

Harry Potter is nothing if not fit. Draco isn’t sure if that’s why he decides it’s okay. He could easily convince himself it is. There’s not even the slightest sign Potter is gay. But his mouth is worrying at the healing cut as it itches, and Potter can’t stop staring at him.

He hasn’t been so painfully aware of everything since the last raid. Potter’s staring down at him, and Draco looks up at him questioningly.  The mess on top of his head sweat mangled and wild, Draco guesses Potter might’ve come from an Auror raid. He can feel the gaze trailing down to his neck when he decides, bugger it, and lunges up to kiss Potter. 

Draco draws back almost immediately after the bruising touch. On some level he must look ridiculous. He still hasn’t changed out of work attire.

Unsure if he’d ever grace an office setting, and probably due to his own upbringing,  _ which he refuses to think about,  _ Draco dressed in a variety of suits. It had taken some time, but the combination of Hogwarts and the hell afterwards had left its mark. Never let someone see you in anything less than expected. The surroundings didn’t matter, or so he told himself.

But then his hand is covered by Potter’s, and Draco’s mouth is taken – no,  _ directed _ – to Potter’s after it drops open in shock, and his mind stops working all together.

 

They definitely don’t make eye contact. It’s definitely not a conscious choice. He’s certainly not going to go anywhere near the thought process of having fucked one of the few people to escape death  _ twice _ . That doesn’t change, not even when Potter briefly makes his hands dance across Draco’s marred chest after he pries open his shirt. 

There’s no affection behind that thought.

 

But Potter doesn’t seem to be aware of what he’s doing to Draco. Everything that pours out of him is rage – no – passion. Potter’s fucking him seven ways to Circe while huffing out sounds close to sobs. Draco’s determinedly staring at the crease of his hip where his own cock is dripping pre-come that’s pooling on the floor. It’s decidedly less hot than thinking about the one familiarizing itself with his guts. He might be able to hold himself off from coming, just a bit longer.

 

Draco’s been riding the pressure building in him for a few minutes when realizes that Potter’s just, well he’s not really there with him. Something drops on his face from above and he’s realized that Potter’s crying. Instinctively, Draco’s hand moves to touch his cheek and Potter almost jumps. 

He gives a reeling thrust to his prostate that has Draco choking on air. His eyes don’t focus on anything. In fact, Draco’s not even sure he’s halfway to the first kiss in his mind. That punches an orgasm out of him.

 

\--

The way Potter flees his house while he’s in the haze of afterglow, Draco’s not likely to see him again any time soon. The Disapparating  _ crack  _ that reverberates through his house shoots him somewhere deep. Draco scowls. He’d try for caring and near-affectionate if that was thing they did. It isn’t. Merlin, Draco’s not even sure if Potter realizes they fucked. 

He punches his chair before going upstairs.

 

* * *

Draco sighed, tired and confused and hurting in a way he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt this way before. Sinking back into his stripped clothes that held Potter’s scent longer than he’d been there, he tried to fall back asleep.

Sometime later, all hope lost, Draco makes his way down to the kitchen. It’s close to three in the morning.

There were still dishes to be cleaned, a meal to be put away – he eyed the spaghetti, momentarily forgetting he’d already thrown a Stasis charm over the meal – when Draco noticed the jacket and the coffee. Still spread out on his coffee table, thrown haphazardly to the side when he’d - 

Oh dear.

 

Normally, Draco supposed he would have Vanished it. Every other one night stand he’d had, he’d done much the same. Usually with a cruel flair and a few selective expletives – directed either at himself or whoever had just Disapparated. 

But now – there wasn’t any anger. Patting a crumpled bag of coffee shouldn’t make you sad. It was ridiculous. 

Neither should opening said bag to get a whiff of one of the strongest coffees he’d ever smelled. Draco reeled. That smell wasn’t going to go away any time soon.

But the longer he played with it, the more wrinkled and degraded the coffee became in his eyes. Maybe whatever Potter was feeling could be better explained when it wasn’t in a sad paper bag.

 

So, he’d taken the coffee and put it in an empty jar. And, after deciding that somehow throwing away the bag would be an early grave if Potter found out, Draco transfigured the labelled coffee bag into a secondary cover for the jar. A sealant. 

In Hodgen’s looped, scrolling script, it proudly declared: ‘For _ Harry J Potter, the only Auror to willingly down 6 espresso shots to work even longer hours alongside an ass like myself. – L.H’ _

Feeling proud at the familial touch, he shut it away and began to make a breakfast that would put every hangover to shame. The coffee stayed in its place next to Draco’s favorite tea for months.

 

* * *

Grief was something Draco understood. Or at least, he understood from his point of view. Whether it was mourning his parents, his friends, or a vast majority of that nostalgic feeling where he could forget the War – Draco understood his own emotions. That had taken some therapy. It had been a few years before it had transitioned from drinking alcohol to talking to a person – but yet. He had control over it now.

 

Which was why it was utterly distressing to watch Potter fly through the motions of it faster than Draco thought he’d ever experienced. 

It had taken three days for Potter to show up at his place again. He’d met him with an icy demeanor. His Floo being open was becoming more of a problem again.

 

“Have you come to collect your things – now that you’ve – “he makes a vague gesture to Potter’s general person – “whatever it is you’ve done?”

Potter blinked at him, slowly, uncomprehending. With ash and soot falling from his hair in shades, Draco thought it looked quite maudlin. It reminded him of their Second year. Except this time his Father wasn’t plotting to possess a small girl braver than he was and Draco wasn’t haughtily thinking they deserved the sooty clothing they wore.

“Yes, Potter – you left – “

 

“They’ve assigned me another Partner.” Potter hastily throws a Scourgify over himself, and then sits across from him at the table. “I’m not sure I even remember his name to be honest.”

Oh. They weren’t even going to talk about it, then. Okay.

“I’m surprised you remember mine, Potter,” he bit out. Potter looked up from where his hand was picking at Draco’s table.

“How the hell could I forget you…” he waves at the general disfunction of Draco’s living area, “you blonde ponce?”

Draco chooses to stare at him rather than rip him a new one. He ignores the eleven-year-old inside him that is, somewhere, deep in the remains of his soul, happy. Therapy, he thought bitterly. Therapy. Something Potter clearly needed a lot of if this was how he was going about his relationships.

 

“Right. I forgot the part where you stalked me for a whole year.”

Potter hums. “That is,” he says, “what you were getting at, correct?”

His guest looks properly admonished. “I mean –  _ technically _ you could say it’s a contributing – “ Draco fumes. 

“Get the fuck out of my house, Potter.” When he doesn’t, Draco’s priming to send a couple of hexes his way. “Stay the fuck away from me if you’re just going to dig up shit.”

 

Potter is still sitting at his table, now with a look on his face. “Well if you’d just let me finish, you’d see I wasn’t – I wasn’t digging up shit. I was just pointing out that I’ve got a habit of just…” he drops his hands, which were flipping up and down as if to let out loose energy.

“What.” He spits.

“Not letting things go? And I know I shouldn’t have – “ he bites down whatever he was going to let slip, eyes narrowing. 

Draco can see in his eyes that Potter is beyond pissed. Exhausted to boot, if the shadows that apparently  _ aren’t  _ ash on his face say anything. Draco squints. Maybe Potter’s just piss poor at cleaning spells. It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest.

 

He’s also got blood on his robes – quite possibly from the head wound that is now making itself known by dripping onto Draco’s table.

Great. So hygienic.

 

“Potter. You’re bleeding. On my furniture.”

“Really. Am I?” He sounds sarcastic, but then flinches when a drop makes a home in his eye. “I thought I cleaned myself up…oh well this stuff is plastic, anyway...”

Now he’s starting to pale. “Yes – who the fuck let you into my house with a bleeding head wound?”

“That guy I got assigned.” Right – somehow this was now Draco’s problem. Something in him wants to let Potter pass out – it would serve him right. But as Potter keeps mumbling to himself, clearly concussed and out of it, Draco decides to be the bigger man. Own up to the fact that he was the one who he’d come to.

For some reason.

 

And he’d get hell if Potter somehow decided to go through his Floo to St. Mungo’s with that cut. Knowing his luck, they’d assume Draco had done it. That was the reason the bastard could just come into his house anyway.

Clean slate and a sealed record his arse. 

 

So, Draco gets up from his chair and points his wand at Potter’s head, relishing in his fear for a second. Murmuring a few cursory diagnosis charms, he sets to stitching the wound together and praising whatever gods there were it wasn’t a curse. 

“You’re not going to be able to leave unless you’ve got some friends with a Muggle car, Potter.”

“Figured that much out for myself, thanks,” he mumbles. Draco snorts. Potter looks close to falling asleep, however, and that just can’t happen.

 

“So, how about you tell me how incompetent your new partner is?” he asks. 

That’s how Draco keeps Potter talking until at least midnight. It’s a little slow at first – they’re both still bitingly angry at one another. But one hour turns to three, and so on. The relief he feels once six hours passes is so strong he nods off as Potter comments on his partner’s robes of all things. It’s an amusing rant.

He wakes up at three in the morning again. This time, Potter’s left his Auror robes draped over him like a blanket. Draco hasn’t felt this cold in a long time.

 

* * *

Watching a tuft of neon blue hair make its way out of the Ministry is a slightly unusual sight.

He tries not to think about how Potter interacts with the remnants of his family.  _ His _ family.  _ His _ blood. And yet years of hatred and prejudice and racism have led to Draco standing alone on the sidelines as Potter praises those whom he should’ve cared about but didn’t. 

 

Potter doesn’t bother him a second glance as he walks the werewolf’s toddler through the Ministry and into the streets. The kid is excited about something, that’s for sure. Draco sighs.

He finds Potter’s office – it’s a harrowing, rather distrustful journey to find it, a combination of Ministry officials staring him down and others watching his every move. It shouldn’t feel refreshing to open a door and find Granger and Weasley snogging. And yet it is.

 

“Mmmm...some things never change.” The door opening didn’t spring them apart, so he takes the fact that his own voice is enough to do so with a grain of salt. Draco deserves that. That and a lot more.

Weasley looks ready to kill him, the familiar Weasley flush making its way across his face. “Malfoy – who the  _ fuck _ do you think – “ Granger smacks him across the face. 

“Ron – calm the hell down!” Draco stares. He _ knows _ that hurts. “What do you want, Malfoy?” He supposes he shouldn’t take pride in the gobsmacked look on Weasley’s face given that he’s still being treated poorly.

Anything can brighten his day, it seems.

Draco ponders on this for a second until the expectant looks get to him. He raises the Auror robes Potter had left at his place. “Just…came to return these.”

 

He wanted to revel in the awkwardness when he came up with the plan. However, these looks aren’t what Draco expected. Granger looks haunted. Weasley looks like he’s going to pass out. It makes it even more awkward, so he coughs, clearing his throat before draping Potter’s robes over the back of his chair.

The organized chaos of his desk almost makes him smile. And then he remembers the strange disarray in which Potter operates his life, and Draco is back to feeling awkward, cold, and terribly, terribly alone.

“Right,” he smiles at them, one he feels is reminiscent of his childhood, “I’ll see myself out. Good day.”

 

Draco shamefully slinks along the outer edges of the trainee cubicles – good  _ Merlin  _ you’d think he was the blood Dark Lord from the looks he got – and flees the Auror department. 

 

* * *

 

They fuck a few more times over the course of six months. None of them seem to connect to anything.

The third time comes as much as a surprise as the first. It’s just turned eleven, and Draco barely hears a sentence about his partner’s misgivings before Potter’s on him – desperately gripping the back of his neck while his tongue finds a new home down Draco’s throat.

Things go rather sideways after that. It leaves Draco feeling confused, because this time Potter takes him from behind roughly and spoons him so lovingly afterwards it spins his head.

Which is why he blurts out, “You know you can stay, right?” So, Potter does. But he’s a ghost in the morning, as if seeing Draco’s face when it’s not glaring him down sets him on edge.

 

Draco thinks about returning Potter’s clothes to his office again but decides against it. He’d been more than unwelcome last time – so Draco keeps them. Somewhere, his fourteen-year-old self is screaming at him as he places the garish Weasley sweater he’d pulled off Potter into his closet.

It’s in a drawer, hidden away. No one will know.

 

The fourth time, Potter comes at him with so much rage they make each other bleed. Draco desperately tucks Potter’s head to his chest as he fucks him angrily. He’s left bitten, sore, and with a wounded reminded of the horrified, blank look Potter leaves with. 

“ _ I’m so fucking sorry _ .” Draco wants to ask him to stay – but that’s too much in the moment, even for him.

 

He mends the ripped shirt, hanging it above the sweater’s drawer. Then he destroys it. And repeats, until now Draco’s considering just turning it into a dishrag it’s so fucked up. If he arranges the left behind bag of groceries around his kitchen, making a strange little niche for Potter, it’s just for him to know. 

 

\--

The next few weeks, Draco’s unsurprised to hear his Floo open almost every other day. They’re not dating - no. He feels like they’re coexisting around something neither of them would touch with a ten-foot pole. Potter doesn’t stay longer than three am.

He mentioned it a few times to his therapist, suddenly desperately grateful everything is confidential between them.

He must sugar coat the hell out of it, or maybe not mentioning the sex makes things sound normal – because Draco doesn’t think their…  _ whatever this is _ … deserves the comment, “Well, I think everyone deserves the time they need to heal. The two of you sound like you’re just…working things out.”

It’s placating, is what it is.

 

* * *

Draco has his official ‘probation’ period run out some time between the eighth and ninth time that Potter has fit himself into his life. 

He wonders if Potter notices. He could, technically, ward him out of his house like he had the others.

But then, Draco thinks, Potter might not put an extra effort to come over. It’s weak. It feels far less refined than the image he’s slowly rebuilt for himself.

 

This thought disappears almost a week after it came and lingered. Draco’s out at a client’s place, more than happy to flourish in the new-found freedom. He’s rarely left his home for spare an hour every so often. The thought of coming home to destruction because of what a random Auror ‘discovered’ he’d left had haunted him. 

He’d almost lost his first three new clients due to a combination of anxiety and the need to Apparate and Disapparate in and out the first fifteen minutes. “Takes some getting used to,” he’d said.

Now that he knows his entire one-person guest list, Draco relaxes. He manages to earn a far more generous amount in a month’s time than he’d done the last year and a half. So Draco makes a few necessary upgrades.

The first time Potter’s back in and he’s met with the leather furniture in its rightful place, Draco can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. They eventually lie down flat after a mumbled, “Stasis Charms are standard practice nowadays,” is thrown out just before Potter’s pressing him into the couch. The plastic chairs have been moved to the atrium. It’s out of affection he doesn’t just Vanish them.

 

Apparating into his home one afternoon, Draco is met with guests. It’s the plural part that he’s worried about.

The first thing he hears comes out of Weasley’s mouth - “Merlin, Malfoy, why do you have a bleeding Cushioning Charm in front of the fire?”

 

“Does your sorry intruding arse want to collide into onyx tile when it flies out of a Floo, Weasley?” He takes pleasure in the realizing looks on Potter and Weasley’s faces, and then almost has a heart attack at Granger’s “I  _ told _ you Ron, honestly you’d think you didn’t grow up in a Pureblood home. Did you really think your floor was just that comfortable?”

He wants to ask why anyone is in his house. So he does.

And then, for good measure, Draco tosses in, “Least of all, Potter, you think you would have some semblance of decorum in  _ not _ _ bringing people who were fucking tortured in this house _ .”

 

Granger’s staring at him like he’s a particularly interesting puzzle. It’s more frightening than that haunted look he’d seen at the Ministry. 

“That  _ is _ what Harry said,” she comments, like it’s almost assumed Potter would do such a chivalrous thing, “but then I reminded him that if  _ you _ of all people can live here, than surely I can handle a spare visit, yes?”

There’s either a compliment or an insult in that statement. Or both. Draco narrows his eyes and is about to throw something back out of habit when Potter cuts him off - “And that’s when I decided to show them the improvements you’ve made to the place. I thought you’d be here.”

 

He looks vaguely guilty, as if remembering that extending an invitation you yourself have only barely received is uncouth. 

“My probation is up, Potter. I  _ can _ leave.”

“And I remember how well you handled that first time so cut the bullshit, will you? I’m sorry.”

Draco stares him down, hoping he can just will the asshole away and Potter’s just standing there, looking as tired and bored as ever. They’re having some sort of silent argument -  _ which Draco was winning _ \-  when Weasley interrupts.

 

“So what is it you’re doing nowadays, Malfoy?”

“I’m doing what your father did during the War, Weasley,” he says, pausing, ignoring the jolt that runs through him at the statement, “or rather, I’m the step ahead before someone’s record has to be tarnished due to some unsolved dispute that doesn’t need government interference.”

Granger coughs. “Which is?”

“I’m settling petty disputes between old families that like to sell each other cursed shit on the offhand it benefits them. Or fix things someone bought without realizing what it was.”

 

“Are you sure they didn’t realize it?”

“Just because they’re not Muggles doesn’t mean senial wizards can’t make a mistake in their old age,” he says.

Weasley laughs. “So you’re taking advantage of the elderly? Wow, that’s a step up - “

Draco whirls on Potter. “Would you kindly muzzle your fucking idiots who seem to take everything out of context and get them out of my house,  _ which I never invited them into _ .”

 

“You know you could always just close off the wards -” Potter starts.

Draco cuts him off. “Do you like being tortured in this house? Is that it? A new kink?” Weasley gives him a stony glare for that one.

“What? What happens in your home if you take the invitation back? Your guests don’t suddenly feel like nails are slowly invading every fibre of their being?” He shoots him a knowing look.

Potter and Granger are now watching them with cautious interest. Weasley doesn't appear to take any comfort in those faces.

Weasley’s jaw sets for a second. And then, with great difficulty that Draco takes enormous satisfaction in, “...our home is more along the lines of nausea - fine,  _ fine _ \- intense nausea, vomiting, and if you don’t leave after that it turns into some variety of severe stomach viruses.”

 

Now Potter and Granger look horrified. Weasley was now checking out the floor with a growing glow across his face.

Hmmm. Draco had always thought his home had the most efficient way of keeping the unwanted out. The Malfoy Manor focused on making sure the intruder knew their presence wasn’t missed, it made one feel as if they were being nailed to the floor and shot by succeeding amounts of red hot javelins, trapped.  But then again, the Weasley matriarch’s penchant for feeding everyone...it certainly suited them better.

 

An awkward silence ensues, and Granger breaks it. “Right, now that  _ that’s _ settled, where were we?”

“You,” Draco points at Potter, “were going to get coffee, or tea, because clearly you’re exhausted, and maybe make a cup for the rest of us?”

Potter clearly wants to protest, but Draco’s already moving Granger and Weasley into the couches.

The coffee and tea cups are sent over, neatly landing next to their designated drinker. He’s not had three minutes to struggle with a possible conversation starter when Potter calls out again.

 

“Malfoy, why is my missing coffee in one of your tea jars?”

“I’m sorry – what now?” Potter holds up one of the glass snap-shut jars with coffee in it. He points to the lid with the name.

Draco stares at him as if he were slow. “Well, it isn’t missing if it’s here, right?”

“I”ve been looking for this Sumatran roast for months!” Draco was looking at the mug of coffee he currently held in his hands. It was, actually, the Sumatran roast Harry was currently livid about. “Where the hell have you been hiding it?”

 

The second he said it Harry shouldn’t have taken that tone of voice. Even Weasley had winced. Draco stood up.

“I didn’t hide it – I put it with all my other hot drinks! You can’t just be coming around here every other day, leaving your things half the time all over my fucking house, and not expect me to at least grasp at my own semblance of sanity, Potter!”

Harry hadn’t noticed it, but Granger and Weasley were now looking back and forth between the two of them with increasing worry. ‘Is this the moment?’ Weasley mouthed at his wife.

Granger nodded only just slightly, taking care to not break eye contact with Draco as if her life depended on it. Draco thought it was unnerving – and would have moved to say so if Potter hadn’t jumped in.

 

“Why are the two of you getting up? You just got here?” Weasley winces, clearly having underestimated Harry’s capabilities in the face of Malfoy. 

“I know but – you know what, I think we need to go check in on Rose, I just remembered – “

“We’ve forgotten a medicine she’s taking. It’ll need to be sorted. Talk to later, Harry. Thank you for having us over, Draco!” Draco can’t comment on the clear notion that they  _ weren’t _ invited over before they’re gone.

 

Harry blinked. Draco was staring at the fire where the two had just leapt into. Harry was still coming to terms with the fact that the office presents his late partner had gotten him hadn’t just apparated into thin air.

“What…why did they just leave?” Draco shrugs, muttering something incoherent. “Right. Okay – back to the task at hand, then –” he strode over to Draco’s living room table and sat down with him.

 

“Coffees? In your hot drinks set? That I’ve been looking for –” he ticked off a few fingers, “Oh, I don’t know, six, seven months now?”

Draco looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I haven’t been hiding them, Potter. You’ve been,” he waved at the Floo where his friends had just disappeared, “in and out of my home for the last seven months or so. Not. That. I. Am. Angry.” He drew out, taking quite the severe look with Harry.

 

“And you’ll stop by after work, and you’re usually tired, or worked up – especially after – after Hodgens –” he cut himself off, taking note that Potter’s face had become pinched – “Well. So, you’ve been a bit out of sorts, and you’ll keep forgetting things. Here.”

Harry was still looking at him like this was news. “I have? Like what?” Draco thinks for a second, eyes mentally going through the mess of his closet - “That maroon Weasley sweater with the patch in the back. Your tie with the Santa hat bowtruckles. Uhhh-your latest dress robes -”

As he lists off each one, possibly pausing dramatically for effect, he can see Harry’s eyes getting narrower. “ _ What _ ?!”

Draco wasn’t sure if this was a ploy or if Harry was the most oblivious idiot he’d ever met. Actually, no. Harry was the most oblivious idiot he’d ever met.

 

Those scars he used to worry about so much have faded. The probationary desk job has refocused their lives a little. Where before Harry had taken to jumping at every little thing due to his ex-partner’s incompetence, now he was spending longer hours at the Ministry itself. Draco might not be seeing him for more than an hour after he wakes up, but he’ll take what he can get.

 

He took a deep breath. “Potter – you’re overworking yourself to the point that you  _ legitimately thought you lost almost a quarter of your own wardrobe _ ?”

“My wardrob-  _ what the hell else do you have of mine, Malfoy?! _ ”

Draco falls back into his chair with a cracked laugh. “Sweet Merlin – oh my god you didn’t – “his hands were making tired, sweeping strokes up and down the side of his face. It made him look exhausted.

 

Harry shook the coffee in his face. “How d’you expect me to know, Malfoy? I’m not a mind reader! I had no fucking clue all this stuff was missing – I’ve been going half mad with work, like you said!”

“I know, which is why half the time I just tidy up after you and put your stuff somewhere convenient. As well as your clothes. Which are all fine, thank you very much, you judgmental ass,” he says, glaring at Harry through the spaces between his fingers. “Fancy that, convenience. Almost like using someone’s house as a second base of some sorts for almost a year and never acknowledging the fact that you practically live here.”

 

Draco’s hands are now at his sides, and he’s flexing them impatiently. Harry seems at a loss of what to say,  _ again _ , so he continues on.

“I’ve told you a thousand times you can stay the night and you’ve been jumping to leave into that Floo or Disapparating like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do!”

So – this conversation is happening and the realization that it might finally end them sends Draco back a couple years. “So please, Potter, can you just tell me why you can’t just stay here?”

 

Harry’s coffee is hanging at his side, loose and close to falling out of his grip. He’s staring at Draco like this is the first time he’s seen him. It’s a few minutes before Harry gets a word out. Merlin save him for the patience he spends on this man. It’s no wonder they never had a conversation that didn’t end in a fight earlier on if this was how he behaved.

 

“...when you say, ‘stay’, what d’you mean by that?” Draco almost lets his mouth get the better of him, but he manages to keep his tongue trapped between his teeth. He’s not even sure what he means - he just fucking hates it that the prat leaves before he wakes up without so much of a goodbye - oh.

Right. “I - hmm - that wasn’t - wasn’t as big a question as you think it was.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly and for a second Draco thinks he’s gone and fucked it up. Maybe - maybe that is what he wants - maybe they just suck at doing anything concrete. “...was it?”

 

“I’m the one asking the question, Malfoy.” Right. Because Draco’s the one that got pissed off. Okay. So he sits there, right hand tapping the arm of the couch and the other doing the same to a cushion.  Harry interrupts him again. 

“I mean, unless - “

“ - I’m trying to figure out a way to say this without fucking it up so kindly shut up, Harry.”

 

Eventually Draco can’t come up with anything else. “I guess that I’m getting a bit tired of waking up every morning alone without so much as a goodbye from you,” he says, “but I’m not asking you to move in. I think that’s - that’s a bit of a crazed move from either of our parts. But - ” as he keeps talking, Draco can feel a realization building, “I think I can safely say we’re a thing if I’m your go-to for emotional breakdowns. Even if  _ you’re _ only now just realizing it.”

 

Harry’s looking at him a little funny and coming towards him so Draco throws in for fun, “And the sex. The sex might’ve been a give away. Not that I - I minded, of course.” He’s smiling at him, hoping to throw off whatever sinking fear he can feel creeping in from the room.

“I never would’ve guessed you minded that portion of it,” Harry says. He’s come to sit down next to Draco, coffee set to the side table, and his arm stretches out behind him, hand brushing Draco’s shoulder. “But I’m not going to lie, with all the idiotic shit I’ve had to deal with, I almost forgot your probation was up this week.”

 

Draco’s trying to focus on the hand thrumming a beat against his shoulder, his neck. Harry’s staring at the fire. “I actually can’t legally stay longer than a full shift with someone on probation.” That comment stops him from leaning into the hand.

“What?”

“I honestly thought you knew - you’ve been so ridiculously careful with it!” Draco stares him down. “I didn’t, I mean, yes I can definitely say I left after some serious moments - but - “

Draco seizes the hand on his shoulder. “Are you -  _ only telling me now -”  _ with each phrase, he’s squeezing Harry’s hand in a crushing grip - “that your idiocy  _ was because of a work clause _ ?!”

 

“Circe! Can you let go of my hand -  _ yes _ \- You don’t think I’m the kind of person who just  _ bails _ on someone I’ve been seeing for months, do you?!”

“I don’t know - like I said before, work was crazy for you, beforehand.” He’s faltering. This isn’t his finest moment. “Those first six months I didn’t know what was going on or where the hell you decided to try and worm your way into my life again. I didn’t even know if you realized what you were doing.”

 

“Maybe not the first time. I might’ve actually panicked at that one.”

“I’ll give you that.” It hadn’t been their finest moment. “And the third time?”

 

“Ron and Hermione didn’t let me hear the end of it after you showed up at the Ministry. Hell, half the time my new partner fucked with me, it was because of that move you pulled.” Draco still didn’t know how he felt about that. He still didn’t want to go near the Ministry again if he could help it - regardless of whatever clientele they might have. But that was another day.

He’s grabbed Harry’s hand and scooted over towards him again. Harry’s hand is pressed against his mouth now. Draco might be biting it, just a little, gripping it tightly. Now those green eyes are staring at him. Directly.

 

“Well, I might’ve come into it a little more than messed up,” Draco nods, smirking slightly at Harry’s put upon look, “but I’m going to stay. Wherever that may be.”

“Here? Or somewhere else?”

Draco’s never seen Harry’s place. He thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, it might be as disorganized and chaotic as the man beside him. But then again, Draco’s been living in a shell of his former life, with the newest changes barely making themselves known. He can’t judge.

Harry’s got his thumb stroking the side of Draco’s face, laughing when he takes the slightest of nips, teeth just grazing the skin of it. “Maybe even the couch.” He inches closer, and before he knows it Harry’s underneath him. Draco is pinning his arm back and above his head as he straddles him on the couch, mouth taking whatever Harry’s willing to give.

 

They’re just making out, wrapped up in each other, but for once, Draco doesn’t think that the fire surrounding him is going to go cold.


End file.
